Billy Corgan

Henry Fonda Theater, Los Angeles, CA: 12

Billy Corgan is a bald Los Angelean. Bald men, as theorized by some shaky scientific research, are said to be perceived as more nurturing and socially mature. Los Angeles boasts the largest Latino population outside of Latin America, a population that is largely Roman Catholic. Images of Mr. Christ are as prevalent as those of Mr. Cruise in this town, somewhat explaining the confused iconoclasm of the city's youth. The confluence of alopecia and the apostolate may have been what prodded Billy to behave as if he were an aging messiah throughout the first of two nights in L.A. in support of his new album, The Future Embrace. He outstretched his arms. He held up his hand with a pick pinched betwixt index and thumb mimicking a papal salute. He even took the stage in a black wool frockcoat. Has he been ordained by the Kabbalah Centre? I'm kind of out of the loop on Robertson Blvd. religious appointments. Too busy shopping at Lisa Kline.

The music was a fairly mundane sermon of Corgan's Strange Days rock, slumbering through each new song to the near-golf tourney courtesy of the crowd's encouragement. Wait, people yell and throw beer at golf things now. This was probably closer to a music performance at the Academy Awards. Yes, yes, that was quite rollicking. Is it rude to check my Blackberry? Only the appearance of an obviously geeked-up Jimmy Chamberlain towards the end of the set threatened to make anything but the wall of Tetris behind the band more than slightly interesting. The fist-pumping Chamberlain entered stage right, took the sticks from Drummer 1.0.2, and was summarily drowned out by Billy's only-thing-in-the-mix guitar. At least Jimmy was enjoying himself. Love that dude.

As much as I wanted to give Billy a chance-- I almost broke my ankle jumping from the seating to the floor for this guy 12 years ago-- he's unintentionally created a theater of the absurd with this new roadshow. From the black trenchcoat uniforms, brushed metal clamshells adorning the two synth players gear, a stand-up Sheila E.-ish synth drummer, and gigantronic images of Bill himself on the screen behind him, Corgan's not doing much to help me take his new material seriously. He barely acknowledged his players (even Chamberlain) or the audience throughout, and played the material with such disinterested aplomb that it was hard to feel anything other than patronized or giggly. If you don't want to be there, Billy, put some hella wicked robots onstage and perch in an amniotic sac above the crowd. Or at least give me a fucking joystick so I can flip some Tetronimoes, damn.